Souvenirs of Murder

by Margaret Duffy

  He said, ‘Are you happy then with my decision that this is not a crime scene and the 4 x 4 should be moved immediately?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I got in the Range Rover, retrieving Patrick’s phone from the floor as I did so. I switched it on: nothing. Either the battery was flat or it had failed. I thought the car might have done so too but it started first time and reversed from its prison easily – they are, after all, designed for rural adventures – and I carefully backed up to the lane. Carrick leading, we then drove the mile or so to Hinton Littlemoor. I made a point of testing the brakes and steering; nothing seemed to be amiss.

  Just outside the village there is a bridge where the old Somerset and Dorset railway line goes over the road. There was some distance between John’s car and mine by this time as it does not do to follow too closely in the event of the person in front meeting a bus or some other large vehicle and having to reverse to somewhere wider. Picturing, agonizingly, a still figure on an A and E examination table all I saw was a sudden movement above the parapet of the bridge ahead of me, something dropping and then the blaze of brake lights.

  I too came to a dead stop and dashed to the car. The windscreen had been smashed by a rock that had landed partly on the bonnet, denting it, and then bizarrely, bounced off and fetched up on the front passenger seat. James Carrick was plastered in broken glass, frozen with shock. My opening his door roused him into action and he tore past me, leapt over a fence and went up the embankment on to the one-time railway line like a terrier after a rat, leaving a silvery trail of bits of glass. I saw him go across the bridge and then his footsteps pounded off along the track bed into the distance.

  Despite everything the thought tripped lightly through my mind: never really upset a Scotsman who plays winger at rugby.

  He came back with his man; a portly, balding, blustering and red in the face – although the latter might have been from the exertion – individual whom he kept a firm hold of as they slithered down the embankment and hefted in one, sack of spuds style, over the fence.

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m chairman of the PCC,’ shouted the man furiously, brushing himself off. ‘I saw the youth who threw the stone and gave chase. How dare you imagine for one moment that I’m responsible!’

  ‘Then why didn’t you stop when I called for you to do so?’ Carrick said impassively, not out of breath at all on this occasion. ‘And refuse to give me your name.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘His name’s Frank Crosby,’ I said.

  Mr Crosby then found himself arrested on suspicion of attempted murder. Yes, Carrick was that mad.

  TWELVE

  I had expected bad news but it was still a shock to find that Patrick was in intensive care. This did not prove to be as ghastly as the information suggested for he was breathing unaided and was only, I was told, lightly sedated. There had been blood and other tests, the first results of which were expected at any time, but so far they did not have a clue what was wrong with him. I explained what had happened to him recently and an immediate move was made to send for his records. Being his next of kin I was permitted a short visit.

  His colour was no better than when I had last seen him and he was lying there, eyes closed, on some kind of chemically induced cloud ten wired up to any amount of electronic hardware that beeped quietly. My arrival elicited no immediate response so, having drawn up a chair, I sat quietly for a couple of minutes. Then, opening my bag, I found the small bottle of my favourite perfume that I always carry with me and, spraying a little on a wrist, wafted it under his nose.

  ‘Ingrid, why am I lying flat on my back in the car?’ he asked, his voice slurred.

  ‘You aren’t,’ I told him. ‘You’re in Bath’s Royal United hospital.’

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered, eyes still closed. ‘Did I prang it then?’

  ‘No, you seem to have fallen asleep at the wheel and it trundled off into a wood and stopped when it got to a tree.’

  ‘Any damage?’

  ‘A few green smears and one small dent in a wing. You must have braked.’

  ‘So when do I get out of here?’

  ‘When they find out why you fell asleep at the wheel.’

  ‘I could do with sleeping for a month.’

  I leaned over and kissed him chastely on a cheek. ‘Then do. I’ll come back and see you later.’

  ‘Can’t I have a better kiss than that?’

  ‘No, go to sleep.’

  By now it was late afternoon. I rang Michael Greenway to tell him the latest news and of course he could do nothing other than express sympathy, offer his support and ask to be kept abreast of developments. I wondered if he was experiencing quiet relief that he did not have to worry for a while that a member of his team would act alone against orders.

  Trying to behave in a rational manner while a whole range of medical conditions: liver failure, damaged kidneys, brain malfunction, brought on by the drugs Patrick had been administered with raged through my imagination – you suffer if you write – I returned to the rectory. Other than to make sure he was all right I had not pestered James Carrick, leaving him to question his suspect. He had reported that broken windscreen glass could get in some truly amazing places and that Frank Crosby was denying everything. He went on to request if I would ask Patrick’s father if he normally drove along that road at that particular time of day.

  ‘Well, yes,’ John answered. ‘If my dear wife had not nagged me into resting today I would have made my weekly afternoon visit to the hospice. I suppose I usually return at around three thirty. And you say that James was driving my car and that someone’s been arrested for throwing a stone through the windscreen. How dreadful! Am I allowed to know who it is?’

  I decided that I could don my SOCA hat and said, ‘Have you had a real argument with anyone on the PCC lately?’

  ‘On the PCC! Good heavens! No, at least, only concerning my strong stance against these stupid ceremonies that people have been holding. I was told by a couple of members that such things were a sign of the times, that by railing against them I was being perceived as old-fashioned and out of touch and was thus bringing the church into disrepute. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion of course, but—’

  Elspeth broke in with, ‘But who, John? Who? That’s what James wants to know.’

  ‘The Crosbys. But they tend to disagree with me about almost everything.’

  Elspeth snorted. ‘Has it occurred to you that they themselves might be involved?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ the priest exclaimed. ‘They’re devout Christians and work very hard for the church.’

  ‘It would appear,’ I said, ‘That it was Frank Crosby who dropped the stone – no, it was a rock actually – when your car went underneath the bridge on the outskirts of the village.’

  Understandably, John found this very hard to believe but was much more concerned right now about his son and went away, shaking his head, to phone the number I had given him to find out if he could visit Patrick. A few minutes later he put his head around the door.

  ‘A doctor would like to speak to you, Ingrid.’

  It was the one I had seen earlier.

  ‘I think your husband’s problem is best described to a layman – and I hope you don’t mind being referred to like that, Mrs Gillard – as delayed toxic shock caused initially by the drugs illegally administered to him in London. I have to admit that there’s a little professional disagreement between me and a colleague at the Nightingale Clinic about what’s going on but it’s clear that he’s completely exhausted by the condition, and also I guess by overwork, and will require bed rest for at least a week together with medication followed by three months convalescence.’

  ‘But no lasting damage though?’ I enquired.

  He hesitated for a few heart-stopping moments before replying. ‘No, there shouldn’t be. There’s slight liver damage but as I’m sure you’re aware the organ is capable of repairing itself and Patrick is otherwise a f
it and healthy man. I see no real problems. But on no account must he drink alcohol during the three months rest, and only then after I’ve given him the all-clear.’

  I thanked him, asked when the patient could come home and was told in two or three days’ time, probably, as they still wanted to monitor him.

  I went back into Elspeth and John’s living room.

  ‘Well?’ they said in unison.

  I said, ‘How am I going to keep him in bed for a week, at home for three months and right away from whisky?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Elspeth. ‘You can’t move into the main house yet as the decorators still haven’t finished and the place is freezing cold so bring him here and I’ll wave the big stick. John, you’ll have to give up drinking too, otherwise it wouldn’t be fair.’

  Leaving a little later, I was passing what I still could not regard as my own front door on my way to the car when I had a strange recollection. When Mrs Crosby had come to tell me, just before noon, that the church was still locked on the occasion of the discovery of Melvyn Blanche’s body in the vestry I had been in the vicinity of the annex and heard her footsteps approaching on gravel.

  I returned to the rear of the house and to the courtyard that will one day be partly given over to a conservatory. The quite short distance entailed walking on flagstones, the only gravel being on the drive itself at the front and the garden paths at the rear. She then, had not come around the side of the house at all but through the wide archway in the far side of the courtyard from the garden.

  Why had she come that way? Had she, with or without her husband, just thrown away the murder weapon in the rectory garden? According to the pathologist, Blanche had been killed between ten and eleven. This did not mean, however, that the killer had necessarily disposed of the hammer straight away.

  By now it was almost dark. I needed to check the state of affairs at home but was turning right at the end of the rectory drive when I suddenly remembered Barbara Blanche and what she had told me. If she had been speaking the truth and knew the identities of those involved in black magic rites I ought to have another attempt at getting her to reveal who it was, ask her outright if it was the Crosbys. With a heavy heart I drove in the opposite direction.

  I parked at the end of the Blanches’ drive, which was narrow, overgrown and, oddly, had nowhere to turn, left the sidelights on and went on foot. Blanche might have hated other people’s trees but he certainly had borne no ill will against those on his own ground; the whole place was like a jungle, branches seemingly brushing the windows. I remembered from my daylight visit that the whole outside area looked neglected so he must have hated gardening. Perhaps that was it, I mused: jealousy of his neighbour’s love of her little wood had been the reason for him trying to bully her into cutting them down. Everything that people partook in or enjoyed had to be controlled. By him.

  Regretting having left the torch in the car and in receipt of one slap on the head from wet leaves already I walked slowly and carefully, eyes trying to pierce the gloom, not wishing to fall down a hole and thus become the Third Riveting Event of the Day.

  Up ahead of me there was a sudden thumping noise followed by a muffled shriek. More thumping, nearer, another shriek, farther away. I stopped to listen and half a minute or so later became aware that someone was hurrying down the drive towards me. They were still some distance away but this was closing rapidly; a woman by the sound of the light scurrying footsteps, the pace of someone no longer young enough to run.

  She was almost upon me when I politely said, ‘Good evening.’

  ‘How dare you give me a fright like that!’ shouted a voice I recognized.

  ‘So it was you banging on Barbara Blanche’s windows.’

  ‘Get out of my way!’ yelled Mrs Crosby, her voice shaky with the jitters.

  ‘Do you know that your husband’s under arrest for attempted murder?’

  ‘Of course I do! More police bungling and I assure you we intend to sue. You’re the woman with that imitation policeman, aren’t you? The rector’s daughter-in-law. Well, you don’t impress me, Miss Hoity-Toity, and you can—’

  I cut in with, ‘I do actually have the powers to arrest you for antisocial behaviour. So, just to make sure that a mistake hasn’t been made shall we go and ask Mrs Blanche if there are grounds for a case against you?’

  In the dark I got the impression that she drew herself up to her modest height. I was quite expecting her to lash out at me.

  ‘No. I called round on church business. But she’s watching a film on the TV with the sound turned up and didn’t hear the doorbell.’

  ‘But the banging noises were outside. You were hitting the windows with your fists,’ I pointed out.

  ‘So I got sick of waiting!’

  The woman then gave me a violent push, which I had been ready for, but I still ended up by stumbling backwards, whacking the back of my head on a low branch. By the time I had regained my balance she had gone. No matter, everyone knew where she lived.

  I rang the doorbell, not expecting in the circumstances for there to be any response. There was not so I pushed open the letter box and called through it.

  ‘Mrs Blanche, it’s Ingrid Langley. Please open the door. The person who was banging on your windows has gone.’

  After a pause, a light came on in the porch and the door was opened, but on a safety chain. A pair of frightened eyes looked at me through the gap.

  ‘She’s gone,’ I assured her. ‘I know who it was. May we talk?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she said miserably.

  Sagging shoulders, a white face, a woman on the verge of tears told it all. I followed her into the living room where she slumped into a chair and did, indeed, burst into tears. A cup of hot, sweet tea later Barbara Blanche seemed ready to talk about it.

  ‘Please answer yes or no,’ I requested. ‘Is it the Crosbys who are behind unsavoury things going on round here?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s only what I’ve been told,’ was the mumbled reply. ‘I found a note written by Melvyn when I was sorting through the paperwork. He’d left it all tidy you know, all ready if anything happened to him. His will, the insurances, everything.’

  Here her voice cracked and she cried again. Me, I was calling myself all kinds of names, like bitch, for example, for prejudging and despising her just because nearly everyone else did.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so unhelpful up until now,’ Barbara Blanche gulped. ‘Felicity can be a bit unpleasant and had rather brainwashed me into not wanting to talk to the police any more. But I didn’t lie to you. I really had no idea Melvyn knew what was going on. I don’t know if he spoke to anyone about it or tackled them face to face. I can imagine him doing it, he was like that.’

  ‘What did the note actually say?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll show it to you.’

  The big, bold handwriting executed in a fountain pen was right to the point:

  Barbara, my dear, if I die in suspicious circumstances then I want you to show this note to the police. There are rotten practices in this village and I am pretty sure the Crosbys are behind them. I hope you never have to read this.

  All my love

  Melvyn

  ‘The window banging started before I found the note,’ Mrs Blanche said. ‘And I was so scared by that time I didn’t dare do anything. As it is I can’t stay in this house any longer, not now I’ve shown that to you, nor in this wretched village.’

  ‘May I give this to Detective Chief Inspector James Carrick?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to now.’

  ‘Is there somewhere you could stay for a few days? With your sister, for example?’

  She pulled a face. ‘No, we’ve fallen out, but I have an old friend who lives in Norton St Philip.’

  ‘I’ll take you there if you can arrange it.’

  It was after eleven that night when I got home, having called, guiltily, to see James Carrick at home to give him the latest information. I had also been to the hospit
al to sit by the side of a perfectly sleeping husband, quite unsedated by this time apparently and no longer under such close observation. He had not even roused when given a much better kiss this time.

  I heated up a carton of soup for my dinner and then fell into bed.

  ‘Blanche wouldn’t have been killed on account of just booze money,’ James Carrick had said the previous evening. ‘Although if he knew about the goings-on and was about to expose those he knew were involved that might have been an incentive to murder. Crosby’s still denying chucking that rock through the windscreen of the car. That was not vandalism but an attack on John Gillard which has to connect, in my view, with the rector’s stand against local black magic activities. I can’t see how Crosby isn’t involved in it but proving it is going to be very difficult unless people start talking.’

  ‘What about his wife?’ I had asked.

  ‘She’s as good as admitted to you to banging on Mrs Blanche’s windows, tonight at any rate, but I can’t really pull her in on account of that alone. But it would suggest that Blanche had spoken to someone of his suspicions about the Crosbys and it had got back to them. I mean, the police have been talking to just about everyone in the village so why pick on her?’

  ‘No, they must have known Blanche was on to them,’ Carrick’s wife, Joanna, had offered. ‘And I think, like you, James, that there’s much more at stake here than reputations and a few pounds to leave people’s pets alone. It has to be something like high-yielding blackmail.’

  ‘Is she vicious enough to do anything else now?’ James had mused aloud, not speaking to anyone in particular.

  This was open to question but at least the victim’s widow was out of immediate harm’s way.

  It was at six thirty the next morning as I made myself some tea, that I remembered the name Huggins. Huggins, the boy Clem in Matthew’s class at school, who had bragged to him that his father was a warlock and who lived in Southdown St Peter.

  ‘Which one do you want?’ said the DCI two and a half hours later – it had seemed reasonable to give him time to hit his office. ‘There’s Darrel: grievous bodily harm and taking away cars without their owner’s consent; Shane: attempted murder and affray; and Carlton: demanding money with menaces. They’re brothers and their old man died when the getaway car he was driving through a red light at seventy in a thirty limit hit a mobile crane and reduced him to mince and tatties.’